Monsters wake. Glass shatters. And Thrazo is the poor bastard left paying for it.

All the orc sellsword wanted was ale, a bed, and a night without getting stabbed. Instead, a nightmare clawed its way out of a tavern alley and nearly tore him apart—until witch hunter Elijah Lynton, stepped in, bound him to an obligation he never asked for.

Now the hunter has come to collect. The job: a village drowning in swamp water, mirrors that show the dead, and fiends wearing the faces of the long-buried. There’s even a witch tangled in the middle—though whether she’s the cure or another curse, no one can say.

Elijah hunts like Dion himself is watching. Thrazo swings his axe and tries not to drown. But debts don’t vanish. One way or another, this one’s getting paid.